


The Prince's Bride

by sgam76



Series: A Sharp, Dressed Man 'verse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Vampire, And a really nice knife, BAMF John, Fae Mrs. Hudson, Gen, John gets a new fancy suit, Magnussen is not CAM, Prince Regent Mycroft, Tawdry vampire ball, Vampire Magnussen, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26238343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: It started, as things often do in the Holmes/Watson household, with an expletive.John would like it known that, for a change, said expletive did not come from him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mycroft Holmes
Series: A Sharp, Dressed Man 'verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/885627
Comments: 56
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, this has been lurking on my computer for a couple of months, as I stole 5 minutes here and there to work on it. It arose from a recent rewatching of HLV, when that little voice in my head said "Hey--Magnussen sure looks like a vampire, doesn't he?"
> 
> The title--well, as you know this series has titles that are often plays on words. And I have seen references to Sherlock having links to the Princess Bride many, many times. So there's that.
> 
> NOTE: This is basically complete. I'm just dividing it into chapters so I have time to edit it as I go.

It started, as things often do in the Holmes/Watson household, with an expletive.

John would like it known that, for a change, said expletive did not come from _him_.

“Bugger!” Mycroft barked. “Bugger, bugger, bugger!” He slammed his mobile down on the kitchen counter as if it had personally offended him.

In the lounge, Sherlock dropped his book (he hadn’t been reading it anyway, just holding it up so that he could ignore his brother more effectively) and gaped, mouth open in surprise. John would have laughed if he hadn’t been doing exactly the same.

John found his words first, as the bureaucrat continued to scowl threateningly at the counter. “Something wrong, Mycroft?” he asked carefully. Mycroft had stopped by to drop off a file for his brother to whinge about, and had (surprisingly) answered his phone mid-conversation after a startled glance at the incoming number.

“Define ‘wrong’,” Mycroft said, with no small amount of bitterness. “Is the world coming to an end? No, not this week. But, has an upcoming event that has been successfully forestalled for _twenty years_ suddenly become both imminent and mandatory? Yes, sadly.” He picked the phone back up, twiddled with it briefly as if considering sending a text, then shoved it roughly into his pocket.

Sherlock blinked. “The Concordium?” he breathed, in what could only be termed a shocked voice. “After all this time?”

“What’s a Concord—whatsit?” John asked.

“ _Concordium_ ,” Mycroft said repressively. “It is a formal meeting, usually held to acknowledge marriages, heirships, or other major transitions in the lives of the mighty.” He frowned. “Last held in the UK in 1702. In large measure because it is often barbaric, misogynistic and inhumane.”

“But outside of the UK…?” John prodded.

“Still used by those of, shall we say, ultratraditional values,” Mycroft sighed. “Like our Uncle August. Who is, unfortunately, the most traditional of them all.”

“So what’s this one about, then?” John said. “Some elderly relative die or something?” As soon as the words left his mouth John abruptly realized how that sounded, and felt his face flush. “Geez. Sorry. Really didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Mycroft said calmly. “No one is dead.”

“Yet,” Sherlock added darkly. “But we live in hope.”

John blinked, and went to make tea. This sounded like the kind of discussion that called for the _nice_ biscuits.

Ten minutes later, over his second cup of tea and third iced biscuit, Mycroft unwound enough to tell the story.

“In this case, the Concordium is about heirship—specifically, mine. Our Uncle August has reached the age where he must declare his heir, and, being August, insists that it be done formally, in front of his typical loathsome, hedonist hangers-on,” Mycroft sneered.

“I would include August in that description,” Sherlock said. “In case anyone was wondering.”

Mycroft frowned, then continued. “We had managed to delay it because I had not yet reached my formal majority, which in our culture occurs at 40,” he said. “After my birthday last month, though, Mummy received a notification that I was expected to present myself, with my consort, for acknowledgment as the heir or forego the title altogether.” He paused, then continued. “The fact that the notice went to her, rather than directly to me, was a calculated insult. Like Rudy*, August considers Sherlock and I mongrels, but for the opposite reason. I am _not_ his first choice as heir.”

“Wait a minute,” John said. “Your ‘consort’? Who’s that?”

“I don’t have one,” Mycroft said. “Wherein lies our problem. Well, beyond the issue of the Concordium itself.”

John made a inquisitive sound; Sherlock huffed but stayed silent.

“No ruler or heir of the _Sang_ can be accepted without a consort, under the Old Rule,” Mycroft said, in tones like that of a Cambridge lecturer. “We in England changed that provision 150 years ago, but the European families have clung to it, as well as many other laughably outdated strictures. One of many things I plan to change, once I am actually in control there.” He gave a wry grin. “And August knows that, which is one of the reasons he is so reluctant to name me heir.”

“Who’re the other potential candidates, then, if he’s so set against you?” John asked.

“There are no others of the right bloodline,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock and I are the only legitimate heirs, as was established after a fairly exhaustive search undertaken about 20 years ago. There are, however, one or two ‘pretenders’—the scions of illegitimate children from far back in the family tree. I presume August has latched onto one of these that he considers malleable enough to be ‘managed’.”

“Unlike you,” John said with a grin, and was surprised to see that smile returned.

“Unlike me,” Mycroft echoed. “Yet another reason August is reluctant to anoint me.”

“You could just decline,” Sherlock said. “Let him choose who he wants, and let them all toddle off to Hell together.”

“I could,” Mycroft said. “But I won’t.”

After Mycroft left, John plopped down next to Sherlock on the sofa and raised his eyebrows. “All right, Holmes, give. Who is this guy ‘August’, and why is this such a big deal?”

“‘Uncle’ August—Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Sherlock said, in his _listen carefully, this is important and I’ll only tell you once_ voice. “Not really our uncle by blood, thank God, but he was orphaned and raised with our mother’s family in France, so…”

He picked up his discarded book, fiddling with the pages until John reached over and plucked it from his fluttering hands. Sherlock scowled but continued after a moment. “He’s a Dane by birth, but his mother is Romanian, last of her line, and he inherited a dual throne, one from each parent. He essentially rules much of northern Europe, with the exception of our own principalities of England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland. His title is _Roi De Le Premier Sang Du Nord_.” Sherlock rolled his eyes to indicate his opinion of that.

There was a lot to unpack in that statement, but John was most interested in the very first bit. “’Thank God’ he’s not really your uncle?” he asked. “Why?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Because he’s slightly demented, a sexual predator and a throwback to an earlier, very unpleasant, era,” he said. “His lack of an heir is probably congenital; it’s not through lack of trying, after four wives and an endless progression of lovers. And he’s highly unlikely to have one now—there are no recorded instances of the birth of a live child to a vampire father over the age of 90, and August is 91. Even if he lives another 40 or 50 years, which is quite likely, it will make no difference. Mummy has tried for years to convince him to formally name Mycroft, since he’s the only logical choice. We’re distant cousins of some sort.”

“And Mycroft doesn’t want it,” John said, nodding. “I can see that. He has more than enough on his plate as it is.”

“I don’t think he cares one way or the other,” Sherlock said. “It’s not the title that’s the issue. It’s the _ceremony_.” The last bit was said with a visible shudder of distaste.

“’Ceremony’?” John said. “What kind?”

“It masquerades as a bonding and anointing of the heir,” Sherlock said, speaking very, very carefully. Never a good sign.

“And…?” John said, knowing Sherlock wanted to tell him, but expecting something he really didn’t want to hear.

“It would be more properly termed a ‘bacchanal’,” Sherlock sighed, with a shudder. “August is a relic, a fossil, a misguided apostle of bad fiction. He’s a great admirer of legends from our distant past, which he’s always embellished upon based on popular culture from the past sixty years or so. I’ve never been to any of his levees—they’re restricted to formal ‘adults’ only, and I’m some years away from that—but Mummy has described them to us. She stopped going to them when we were children. Said it wasn’t…” He started to say more, then looked over at John and _blushed_. Right up to his hairline.

Well, then.

“So what’s the real issue, then?” John asked. “If Mycroft’s the heir, he goes to this, um, orgy-type thingy, deals with your uncle, and he’s done. Or is there more to it than that?”

Sherlock nodded. “You heard him mention a consort. He _must_ have one, or he can’t claim the title. And, for reasons I’ll let him explain, he can’t just take a random individual. But there are potential ramifications if he takes the wrong person. We need more information than we have, need to understand our options, and quickly: the Concordium is in 10 days.”

John blinked. “Bugger.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns a fair amount about the horrible Uncle August. He sees a very surprising instance of brotherly cooperation that brings home how critical the situation really is. And makes an unlikely decision.
> 
> No, really. Even John is surprised.

When John got up two days later, there was a large box sitting in the middle of the sitting room floor, with shipping labels in French. Sherlock wasn’t around; John thought about opening the box, but considering the odds that it might be toxic, or explosive, or, oh hell, _living_ , he decided to wait until his flatmate rolled out of bed and explained.

When Sherlock wandered out 45 minutes later, hair a puffy mess and eyes at half-mast, he lit up like a candle when he saw the box. “Oh,” he said, as John handed him his breakfast of a bag of warmed blood, toast with honey and tea. “I never thought it would get here this quickly. Mycroft _will_ be pleased.”

Which wasn’t generally something Sherlock would say, or _think_ , but these were unusual times, after all. And that also explained the senior vampire showing up on their doorstep an hour later without evincing a sneer from Sherlock. Mycroft settled himself on the sofa, politely declined an offer of tea from John, and looked expectantly at his little brother.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Because of your…situation, I thought it wise to reach out for additional resources, outside of the normal channels,” he began. Mycroft’s dark red brows rose, but he stayed silent. “I have a contact, an acquaintance from uni, who works within the _Sang_ archives in Brussels, someone that August likely is unaware exists and so would be unable to subvert.”

Mycroft was definitely interested now. “And what, exactly, is contained within said archives?”

“Records of more than 500 years of _Sang_ court decisions on heirship, marriage and bonds under the Old Rule,” Sherlock said. “It’s not something _we_ would ever use, most likely, but August’s group would consider it gospel and follow it accordingly. If any kind of loophole exists, it’s here.” He briefly looked uncomfortable. “There are strictures, however. Necessary for the safety and anonymity of my contact.”

Mycroft looked down his patrician nose and narrowed his eyes, but ultimately nodded.

“We can make no copies, though writing down citations is acceptable,” Sherlock began. “The books may not, under any circumstances, leave the flat, and must be boxed and returned no more than five days from today. We can enlist no outside help in translation, which is likely our biggest problem: though the records are in European languages we both know, they often use ancient versions and old scripts which will require considerable work to decipher. And the relevant records for our particular issue are likely to be the oldest of all, given that the bonding of war captives and the like died out several hundred years ago. Well. For everyone except August’s lot, I suppose.”

The brothers shared a derisive lip curl.

The two launched into the books virtually immediately. John, unfortunately, was of no help—he couldn’t read the _modern_ versions of German, French or Hungarian, let alone the ancient forms. He decided his job was to keep clients away, and keep the researchers hydrated and fed. Mycroft had helpfully arranged for an extra blood delivery so that he wouldn’t deplete Sherlock’s stores, so John only needed to make the occasional Tesco run for regular food as required.

Anthea showed up now and again with papers for Mycroft to sign, or reports for him to acknowledge, but she didn’t stay long. Mycroft, on the other hand, spent at least 12 hours a day underfoot. It was, to be honest, a little unsettling to see the brothers spend that long together without fighting. It served to drive home the seriousness of the situation to John.

There were moments of frustration, certainly—Sherlock initiated a long, complicated argument in French, which ended with both brothers stomping off to neutral ground briefly (Sherlock to his bedroom, Mycroft down to Mrs. Hudson’s), and Mycroft once said something rude in Hungarian that led Sherlock to leave the flat for several hours. But, on his brother’s return, Mycroft gave him quite a pretty apology, and they were back at it.

All told, they spent five days living in the arcane books. Mycroft showed up looking progressively more strained each morning—he was presumably handling every urgent matter for his governmental job at night, after spending all day at Baker Street. He said little during the many, many hours of searching. Despite his clear worry, he never once asked to remove the books in violation of Sherlock’s agreement.

John finally cornered Mycroft on the fourth evening, when Sherlock had retired early with a mild migraine. John was becoming concerned about Mycroft’s stress, and his apparently low blood intake. He suspected the older man was almost as likely as Sherlock was to ignore his body’s needs during difficult times.

“So, what’s the real issue here?” John asked, holding out a heated blood bag and refusing to take no for an answer. “Why can’t you just take, oh, Anthea or someone like her? It’s not like she’d be an issue, after all.”

Mycroft shook his head, while sucking pensively at the bag. “It’s a problem of great difficulty,” he said. “We have been unable to find a way around the consort requirement. I can’t bring another vampire, like Anthea—to do so, only to then repudiate them after the ceremony, would put them under a social cloud in our society that would be very difficult to overcome. I had considered asking DI Lestrade—the sex of the consort is immaterial, according to the archives, and he would certainly be able to hold his own if challenged—but I will not place his grandfather in the position of owing fealty to the _Sang_. And none of the other wolves we know personally are of high enough rank.”

“And you can’t ask a fae, since your uncle hates them,” John said, and Mycroft nodded.

“Not an obvious fae, anyway,” the bureaucrat said. “A bit too much of a provocation. August is not the only _Sang_ member with such prejudices.” He sucked on the bag again—John _knew_ he’d been hungry.

“But Sherlock says you don’t care about the title one way or the other,” John continued. “So why go at all? Why not let this old horror do whatever he wants?”

“Because that then condemns all of the people he rules—and there are a _lot_ of them, John, spread across much of Europe—to remain living under those archaic, misogynistic, frankly brutal rules for the next 100 years or more, if August inserts a candidate like himself,” Mycroft said. “And little though I want the crown, I can’t bring myself to abandon them.”

And. Well. John couldn’t really argue with that. He went and got Mycroft some tea and a biscuit, and settled down to keep him company as he opened the next ancient, musty book.

On the fifth day, Mycroft showed up not long after dawn, wired tighter than a watch spring. He had dark circles under his eyes, and looked tired and nervy. Very like his little brother at the end of a too-long case.

John cooked a full English before rousing Sherlock to begin the day; Mycroft looked like he needed it. Once they were done, the brothers settled in for their last day of work.

It was no more fruitful than the other four had been. At 4 pm the elder vampire stood, placed the final book back in the waiting box, and dropped bonelessly into John’s chair.

“We are at the end,” Mycroft said, in a voice that spoke more of exhaustion than anger. “We have no viable ‘out’, and no safe candidate for a consort that would be acceptable. I will inform Mummy, and she will let August know that I withdraw.” He rubbed his palms over his face, looking utterly defeated.

Sherlock looked on, brows knitted in a deep frown. “I can try—” he began hesitantly, before John interrupted.

“Oh, fuck, I’ll do it,” John heard himself saying, and was surprised to realize he meant it. “As long as you don’t have to bugger me in public or anything.” He wanted that clear, right up front. Just in case.

Mycroft made a startled noise, but Sherlock beat him to the punch. “That’s…not a bad idea, actually,” he said slowly.

“How so?” Mycroft said. “He’s not of any elevated rank which would make him acceptable, and we can hardly present him as a war trophy.” He had the grace to look a little abashed. “No insult intended, John.”

“None taken,” John said. “But I do have—”

“He has decorations,” Sherlock blurted, determined to take control of the conversation. “Many of them. For valour. For courage under fire. And he was permanently injured in defense of his comrades.” He gestured towards the pile of ancient books. “If you read the _Annals of Justine_ , it specifically highlights—"

“That war honours are considered an acceptable substitute for rank, if they are numerous and prestigious enough,” Mycroft said, grabbing the reins back again. “That is indeed relevant, Sherlock. Thank you.”

“And John is more than able to defend himself if needed,” Sherlock said excitedly. “Particularly if we give him the tools to do so.”

John wondered idly if that would include a stake.

Now that they had a plan, there was much to do. Not the least of this was John’s education in all the many, many things he needed to remember, lest he get them all killed. Or at least disinherited. Mycroft showed up each afternoon and spent several hours with John. He was surprisingly willing to answer almost anything John asked.

“Will your mum or dad go?” John said, that first day.

Mycroft’s colour rose a bit. “No, at my request,” he said stiffly. “I ask you, John: would you wish to attend what is essentially an orgy with your parents standing next to you?”

John was pretty sure his face was answer enough.

“I’m technically allowed to attend, as Mycroft’s heir, though it’s going to be controversial in some circles,” Sherlock chimed in. “But I am not allowed to speak or interact with any of the ‘adults’, other than you or my brother. We have not told them you are also fae. It would not go over well.” The accompanying eyeroll looked almost painful.

“So, tell me about consorts,” John said on the second day. “Will I be considered, like, your husband? Or your bit on the side?”

“A consort is…less than a spouse, but more than a lover,” Mycroft said primly. “In days past, consorts were very occasionally freed slaves, but, more often, were either battle captives or free people of a slightly lesser caste than their bondmate. It is, by its nature, an unequal partnership—but it _is_ a partnership, not ownership.”

“That’s nice, I guess,” John said slowly. “But what does that mean for me? Why are you so concerned about taking a consort along who’s able to defend him or herself?”

Mycroft looked momentarily uncomfortable before stilling his features and continuing, speaking very carefully. “While it is not ownership, under the Old Rule a consort could be part of a challenge. Such challenges would, at least after the end of the Middle Ages, take place typically between the supporters of the rivals, rather than the principals themselves. Knowing my uncle, I would not be shocked to see such an attempt, trying to negate my claim to heirship so he can insert his own chosen candidate. Since it is not in my nature to have a large entourage, I believe it wise to ensure that all parties I do bring are prepared to engage if necessary, _including_ my consort.”

“That’s allowed?” John asked. It seemed an unusual provision.

“Less formally ‘allowed’, than ‘not specifically prohibited’,” Sherlock chimed in. “We checked, very carefully indeed.” He looked rather smug about it; John suspected that had been Sherlock’s personal idea. “And since August is such a stickler for following the Rule…”

“He can’t argue without weakening the rest of his case,” John said, and was pleased to see Mycroft give him a confirming nod.

Two days before the event, Mrs. Hudson sat with John while he was measured for his suit to wear to the ceremony. She dispensed tea and scones while John considered himself lucky that Mycroft and Sherlock had taken themselves off somewhere. The tailor worked quickly and efficiently, and managed not to make any comments about John’s height or lack thereof.

“Did you ever go to one of these events?” John asked Mrs. H during one of their breaks from fittings.

“I’m fae, dear, not a vampire. I wouldn’t be invited,” she said cheerily. “But from what Mellie told me, I wouldn’t want to be. August isn’t _evil_ , exactly, but he’s nonetheless a nasty bit of work, if you ask me.”

“Everyone implies that, but no one will tell me why,” John whinged. “Sherlock said that August got his ceremony ideas from ‘old legends’, but I asked Mycroft and he got all flustered. Well, relatively speaking.” Since Mycroft’s version of “flustered” consisted solely of slightly heightened colour and fewer words.

“Did Sherlock not tell you where August’s mum was from?” Mrs. H asked, which seemed a bit of a non sequitur.

“Um,” John said, thinking aloud, “Romania, I think?”

Mrs. H nodded encouragingly, acting as though that answer was an explanation, in and of itself.

It wasn’t.

Mrs. H made a little discontented huff. “Oh for pity’s sake, John. You _live_ with a vampire, and I know for a fact you’ve made Sherlock sit through every bad Hollywood vampire movie you can find when you’re irritated with him. Do you have no idea where Romania _is_? And what it’s famous for?”

John felt his cheeks redden. “Well, I know basically where it is, I mean, eastern Europe, not that far from Hungary, Serbia…”

Mrs. H tutted. “The state of education these days. Does it help when I mention that August’s family is from the province of Wallachia?”

And just like that the pieces fell into place—and John’s jaw dropped open. “Wallachia?” he bleated. “As in, um, _Transylvania_? As in _Dracula_?” His voice went up into a totally inappropriate range for a grown man.

Mrs. Hudson beamed. “There you go! Knew you’d get there eventually.” She dropped her voice confidingly. “Though I wouldn’t refer to ‘Dracula’ if I were you. It’s considered a bit of a slur. His family name was Vlad Tepes. August’s many-times great-grandfather.”

“ _Vlad the Impaler_?” John squeaked, unsure if that was better or worse than “Dracula” and, if so, why.

The old lady gave a genteel frown. “Well, that’s considered a bit inflammatory as well. He was a great hero against the Ottomans and Hungarians, you know. So they tend to ignore his other…peculiarities.”

John almost laughed at that—as if impaling was along the lines of, oh, obsessing about trains or something. “But so, erm, Bram Stoker was right? It wasn’t fiction?”

“Oh, all that nonsense about ‘turning’ people, and the brides lolling about in scanty lingerie—that’s all nonsense, of course. Pure sensationalism,” she said. “But Vlad being a vampire—yes, of course. He went a bit mad towards the end, which is where a lot of the more graphic stories come from. He was killed in battle, ultimately, and they sent his head to the Sultan as proof he was dead.” She looked up through her lashes. “Vampires are rather hard to kill, you know, so they needed to be _sure_.”

“Well, that would do it for me,” John laughed.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big day finally arrives. John gets to see his new clothes (and some unsettling accessories), and is treated to a view of the Holmes brothers in full regalia.
> 
> And the Concordium, which is like an orgy, only tackier.

The great day—well, evening—finally arrived. A bag with John’s outfit had been delivered just after lunch, and Mrs. Hudson had insisted on John not seeing it until it was time to dress. Which, unsurprisingly, made the hair rise on the back of John’s neck, envisioning something out of a porn movie about busty Roman aristocrats and mostly-naked gladiators.

Much too soon, it seemed, it was time to get ready. Mycroft would dress at his own home and meet them here with transport; Sherlock, of course, already had his regalia in his wardrobe, and John had seen him in it a couple of times in the past for _Sang_ Court functions.

John was more than a little apprehensive. But it was too late to worry about it—he, they, were committed. He sighed and headed upstairs, Mrs. Hudson trailing along behind. “You might need some help, John,” she said. “It’s not quite a tuxedo, you know.”

John looked at himself in the mirror as Mrs. H finished the last little touches to his tunic. “Well,” he said, “it’s pretty, if nothing else. Though a little over-the-top.”

And it was—a forest green velvet sleeveless tunic, with a Watson tartan sash going from left shoulder to right hip, and his military decorations carefully pinned on the right shoulder of the tunic. Tartan leggings tucked into dyed green doeskin boots that reached just above the ankle.

John thought he looked a little like Puck. Or Robin Hood. Or (said a snarky little voice in his head) a pixie.

Mrs. H handed him a matching leather belt. It came with a scabbard stitched with gold thread, holding a curious wooden dagger with golden wire inlaid around the pommel and the base of the blade. The point, though only of wood, was wickedly sharp and somehow hardened.

“You need to keep that close by you,” Mrs. H said. “Mycroft had it special-made for you—it’s hawthorn. Poisonous to most vampires, though not Mellie’s boys, thank goodness. The fae side helps with that. The wood makes Sherlock a little queasy, but doesn’t bother Mycroft at all.” She took it from him and tucked it firmly back into the scabbard. “Remember,” she said. “Keep it with you, all the time.”

The final touch to the outfit, though—that one tipped things over the line from “over the top” into “downright embarrassing”. Because no matter how lovely the worked green leather was, no matter how comfortable it felt, butter-soft and perfectly tailored to his neck, it was still a collar. As in, dog collar. Complete with a worked gold D-ring on the front, if someone— _Mycroft_ —wanted to attach a _leash_.

“Jesus,” John sighed. “I’m not a consort, I’m a _pet_.”

“The precise term is ‘thrall’, and it is the only way a human—excuse me, _non-Vampire,_ to avoid offending your delicate sensibilities-- would be accepted as a consort in the eyes of those antiquated, ossified old relics,” Sherlock said, sweeping in with his own navy-blue regalia draped over his arm. He’d already laid the silver diadem loosely atop his curls*. “It’s better than the alternative, older version, believe me.”

“Which is?” John asked, hoping that Sherlock didn’t have a leash in his pocket.

“Blood slave,” Sherlock said, and nipped off to get dressed.

Mycroft’s bodyguard actually knocked at the main door of Baker Street when he arrived—apparently the Prince Regent didn’t open doors on his own. Mrs. Hudson did the honours and escorted him upstairs, cooing compliments that the bureaucrat largely ignored.

John had to admit, though, the man looked good—it was a modified version of Sherlock’s beautiful Court dress, made in a deep red velvet rather than Sherlock’s midnight blue. The elaborate embroidery, and the matching diadem on his head, were in burnished gold, and the gem in the center of his forehead was a ruby dark as port wine.

Sherlock walked out of his room, dressed in his own finery, and did a doubletake at the sight of John’s outfit. “Well,” he said. “That’s…not bad.”

John felt a little smug. “Yeah,” he said. “As long as Mycroft promises he doesn’t have a leash in the car.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Not this time,” he said.

Mrs. Hudson insisted on taking a photo of the three of them in their finery before they left, while the Holmeses made matching faces of profound boredom. John thought wryly that their mum must despair of ever having any decent pictures of her children.

Mycroft’s bodyguard was waiting in the lobby, and guided all of them to the silver Bentley waiting at the curb. John was happy to see Andrew, Mycroft’s usual driver, at the wheel, and cheerfully climbed in the front passenger seat with a smile.

It was a shortish trip to the huge Victorian hotel that had been chosen for the event. That had been a point of contention with August, who had initially insisted on Mycroft coming to his own enormous pile in Copenhagen. Mycroft had ultimately prevailed by pointing out that his secular position with the British Government precluded his leaving the country without an abiding reason to do so. Heavily implied therein was the fact that August would not be considered important enough to warrant such a request.

John was sure that went over really well.

They pulled up to the enormous, brightly lit porte cochère, and Mycroft’s bodyguard ushered everyone else out before collecting Mycroft. A spatter of passersby looked on curiously, wondering who these obviously important players were, and whose costume party it was.

Mycroft ignored it all. He was very good at ignoring people.

The guards were surprising, though once John thought about it he realized he should have expected something similar. As John, Mycroft and Sherlock had stepped out of the car, two of the biggest men John had ever seen had come towards them on the pavement, bowed to Mycroft with a hand over their hearts, and moved silently into place behind their group as they moved towards the hotel doorway. Once they reached position at the top of the stairs, the guards slid in behind, close enough to touch but keeping enough room to maneuver if necessary. They marched in step, moving as a single unit, watching everything and everyone around them.

They all stepped into the vast ballroom together, looking around at an array of ornate, bawdy decorations. “Early Bordello theme,” Sherlock drawled in John’s ear. “How tasteful.”

The room was dominated by a large installation in the middle of the floor—clearly moveable, but appearing to be sculpted of stone. It included writhing, carved representations of an imaginative array of sexual acts, including everything from BDSM to bestiality. And flowing down the sides of these vulgar figures was blood—a vampire version of the kind of champagne fountain sometimes found in over-the-top parties. “How wasteful,” Mycroft sniffed. “It’s likely inedible from the stonework and the amount of time it’s been stored. But far be it from August to steer away from distasteful and pointless display.”

A chamber orchestra twiddled away in one corner, though they were largely inaudible over the buzz of conversation. Around the room there were multiple clusters of people crowded around circular plush couches—and, on those couches, arrays of _other_ people involved in a wide variety of sexual acts, while the onlookers offered encouragement, took pictures, or reached in to fondle the participants.

John found it like watching videos of snake mating coils—not really in any way erotic, but hard to look away from.

From John’s point of view, the most startling sight was the group of six nude young girls, and two willowy boys, secured by thin silver chains to the base of the “statue” and blood fountain. As John looked on, three of the group held out delicate wrists to guests, who proceeded to bare their secondary teeth and latch on, sucking roughly before letting go and wiping off their mouths with a cloth the “snack” provided.

Beside him, Sherlock made a low sound of disgust.

They paused at the top of the steps as a uniformed servitor loudly stamped a metal staff on the marble floors, which echoed like a bell. “The Prince Regent of _Le Premier Sang d’Angleterre_ and party,” he boomed. Mycroft took hold of John’s arm to keep him from starting down the stairs, posing regally at the top while cameras flashed. This, clearly, was about _presence_. About the impression Mycroft wished to present.

After their brief pause, the party headed slowly down the steps. Mycroft had drilled the protocol into John, over and over. “I must always lead, but you must stay within arm’s reach and slightly behind,” he said. “Sherlock will be at my right as my supporter, and my guards will flank us and stay slightly behind unless needed. Don’t stare, but don’t lower your eyes if someone catches yours—it’s an admission of inferiority. Don’t, under any circumstances, lower your head or bow unless I tell you to. And be prepared to follow my lead if need be; I’m unsure what tactics August will employ, so we may be forced to improvise.”

Things went south almost immediately. John wondered, afterward, if this was exactly what Mycroft had expected.

When they reached the bottom of the steps there was a rustling of people and conversation at the far side of the room. That rustling visibly progressed through the crowd, and finally resolved into an impressive group of people, who moved into the wide gap that had mysteriously appeared in front of Mycroft.

At the point of the wedge of four people was a very tall, thin man, with a violently receding hairline, neatly-trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses. His remaining hair was a pale blend of grey, brown and white, and his eyes almost matched—a clear blue-grey, with the flattest affect John had ever seen. The word that immediately came to mind was “icy”.

It had to be “Uncle” August, though he looked 35 years younger than the 90-plus John knew him to be. The man moved smoothly over to stand in front of Mycroft, and held the back of one hand limply out towards the younger vampire. “Mycroft,” he said, with a voice as chilly as his eyes. He had only the slightest Scandinavian accent.

Mycroft bowed, ever so slightly, in a way that managed to convey insolence without saying a word. He picked up the hand and touched it briefly to his forehead, then released it and stepped back. “Uncle,” he replied smoothly. “Well-met.” He gestured towards John and Sherlock. “I bring my heir, and my consort. We thank you for your hospitality.”

That cold, cold gaze drifted to Sherlock. He gave the detective a Look, a long, blatantly lascivious up-and down. “This is not a place for children, no matter how pretty,” he said imperiously, and lifted his chin towards the largest of his three musclebound guards. “Remove him.”

“ _No_ ,” Mycroft barked. “I am permitted my brother as my heir and supporter. He knows he may not speak.”  
He stepped in between the guard and his prey, while that prey glared defiance and made a very rude hand gesture.

Magnussen frowned, eyes glittering behind the fragile glasses. After a beat, though, he nodded once to the guard, who backed a step or two, putting his hands down. “Very well,” he said, his accent slightly more noticeable than before. “Let’s to business, shall we? I find the party infinitely more amusing, and I would like to return to it. Present your case, if you will.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “Here?” he asked, looking around at the leering crowd. “I presumed we would retire to—”

“Here,” August said with a smirk. “This won’t take long.”

Mycroft gave a jerky nod and took a deep breath, then began. “I am here to proclaim my right of heirship, as is my birthright,” he said. He reached over, grabbed John’s hand in his and held it high. “I present my consort, John Hamish Watson, and assert my fitness under the Old Rule.”

John fell into a modified version of parade rest, his free hand tucked behind his waist, legs slightly apart, shoulders high and back. He looked August straight in the eyes, in a way he suspected was a challenge. He didn’t care.

The old vampire stalked forward, a look of profound disdain on his patrician face. “And by what ‘birthright’?” he sneered. “You call me ‘Uncle’. We both know that to be untrue.” Which John thought was pretty damn rude, considering Mycroft and Sherlock had called him that from childhood.

Mycroft nodded. “We do,” he said, almost as coldly as the awful man in front of him. “My presumption has always been that it was a welcome courtesy. I will let my mother know it is not. She will, no doubt, be surprised, given her family’s fostering of you these many years. But I am sure she will give that no more weight than you do, after consideration.”

That, there, was a _masterful_ insult, John thought. He caught Sherlock’s mocking smile, and matched it.

August bristled slightly, but managed to subdue it before speaking again. “We return to my original question, then,” he said. “By what birthright are you here? What qualifies you as heir, above my own choice as my successor?”

Mycroft reached into his tunic and drew out what appeared to be a folded parchment. He held it out briefly, then let it drop when the older vampire made no move to take it. “That is a copy of the formal search that was undertaken some 20 years ago. It details the family relationship. My brother and I are, I believe, third cousins through your mother’s family. There were no other _legitimate_ heirs identified, despite quite exhaustive searching.”

He noticed something in his “uncle’s” face and gave a thin smile. “Oh,” he said, in feigned surprise. “Did you not realize a search had been completed? How inconvenient for you.”

“Well,” Magnussen said, studying his fingernails, “I fear I am not inclined to honour such a designation, especially since the search was not revealed to me at the time—from my perspective, that makes the results suspect. And, as your mother may have surmised, I wish to install my own choice, regardless of the legitimacy of his bloodline. That being the case, I must invoke a challenge.” On the last word, he made a slashing motion with his right hand, and his guards moved on Mycroft with intent, as the younger vampire stepped back towards his own hovering retinue.

Amidst shocked cries from the crowd, Sherlock shot forward to protect his brother, and Magnussen’s largest guard, easily topping seven feet, reached over and grabbed, one hand tangling in Sherlock’s hair while the other fished around his waist and lifted him completely clear of the ground. John could hear his breath whistle out, ending in a pained whine as the guard increased the pressure. Mycroft’s own guards intervened to protect their employer and fend off the second of August’s attackers, while Mycroft himself glared death at the man in question, claws out and flexing.

John, though he initially moved forward, couldn’t help—the third guard reached over and grabbed John’s wrist, attempting to yank him off his feet. John countered instantly, hand wrenching free as he dropped flat on his back, sliding between the man’s widespread legs. He reached up to punch him in his unprotected balls with both fists as he passed underneath. John was aware of the vampire toppling with an anguished howl behind him as he swung to his next target.

John never slowed down. He yanked his dagger from the sheath, then spun, leapt, and whipped his legs straight at Magnussen’s chest, throwing his full weight behind it and scrambling back into strike position, knife at the ready, as soon as he made contact. The old man toppled like a tree, landing hard on his back with John’s knee on his chest and his lethal little surprise shoved against that long neck. August was at least wise enough to stay still. John nudged him, carefully, to his knees as John moved back slightly. He stood, while forcing the Dane to remain kneeling. John kept the point of the dagger firmly against skin that was already beginning to redden and swell.

“It’s hawthorn,” he said casually into the sudden shocked silence, ignoring the horrified gasps from several voices around him. He pitched his voice to reach the far corners of the room. “Mycroft and Sherlock are mostly immune to it—hybrid heritage winning out, there.” He noticed the moue of disgust on August’s patrician face, and pushed a little harder. “But as I understand it, most vampires are violently allergic to it—to the point of going into your version of anaphylactic shock, in fact.”

He looked over at Mycroft with a smile. “It was a bonding gift.” Mycroft, ever the diplomat, smiled right back, with a few too many teeth, several of them pointed. His eyes flashed ever-so-slightly green.

“And this bonding to a _human_ ,” the Dane said, lip curling despite his current situation. “You were not required to prove yourself in combat? You are not of any special lineage, possess no exceptional talents that make you worthy of such a position?”

“Well, I’ll remind you that I just took out your guard, who’s presumably a vampire and much stronger than I,” John said. “And I am currently holding a killing weapon to your throat in front of this entire assembly. A weapon, by the way, that I will certainly use if you give me a reason to do so. Cheerfully, at this point. You’re really a shite host.”

John was aware of Sherlock in the background, struggling furiously with the impassive guard who made two of him. John needed to end this, before the detective was seriously injured.

“Call off your dogs,” he said, pushing the point in a bit further. “Now, please.”

The vampire gave him a hate-filled look but complied, barking something Danish at the two guards still standing, who instantly moved away from their respective prey and lowered their clawed hands. Mycroft’s contingent stepped briskly over to stand as a wall between the guards and the rest of the tableau on the floor.

“Very good,” John said, and handed the knife carefully over to Mycroft when he came close enough, before stepping out of the way. John, once he was sure things were secure, hurried back over to pick up the still-wheezing Sherlock from the chilly marble floor.

Mycroft stood impassively in front of the glaring older man, dagger carefully held under that strong chin. “Well,” he said, “I think it time you said the words, don’t you?”

“I. Yield,” the vampire gritted out, and a sigh went through the rapt crowd. This was, apparently, better than reality TV for an evening’s entertainment.

Mycroft frowned. “I am afraid that’s not sufficient,” he said chidingly. “I do not intend to go through all of this again at a later date, after all.” He pulled the dagger away from August’s neck, but used it to make a circling “carry on” gesture that wasn’t lost on the crowd, which tittered audibly.

Magnussen looked around with a black glare, and various attendees in the front row of spectators blanched and backed carefully away. Mycroft waited, with patience honed through a lifetime of dealing with unreasonable people.

The aged vampire broke first. “All _right_ ,” he snapped. “I, Charles Augustus Magnussen, _Roi de Le Premier Sang Du Nord,_ hereby acknowledge Mycroft Holmes as my heir, for all titles, state possessions and honours.” He glared at Mycroft. “Will that do?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Not quite,” he said. “You omitted my title.” Sherlock snickered beside John, and the old man’s cheeks grew a patch of red.

“Mycroft Holmes, Prince Regent of _Le Premier Sang d’Angleterre,”_ Magnussen snarled.

“ _Much_ better,” Mycroft crooned. “Now, as far as how things go from here: your entry permits for my territory are hereby revoked, as are the ones from the secular British authorities. You will no longer be allowed in any British territories without my express permission, which will _not_ be granted.” He smiled; it was not a nice smile. “One of the perks of my ‘human’ position,” he continued. “And one I will vigorously enforce. You have 3 hours to exit the country; that should give you sufficient time to collect those of these riff-raff that should accompany you, as the ban will extend to them as well.” He looked over the group, now looking uncomfortable. “And yes, I know all of your names,” he said, raising his voice to ensure they heard. “Yet another advantage of my ‘human’ status.” 

Over Mycroft's shoulder, John caught Magnussen's eye and smirked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sherlock's regalia is detailed in "Dances, With Wolves". There's a link therein to a lovely illustration of it by dragonnan, who is also lovely.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wraps things up, but leaves something unexpected at Baker Street. Something that eats rather a lot, and leads to some uncomfortable revelations. 
> 
> It's a pretty typical day for John, all things considered.

The crowd began to rapidly disperse, making alarmed noises. The chained youngsters remained stranded by the appalling fountain; Mycroft noticed, and jerked his head at one of his guards, who hurried in their direction. “Ask the hotel to find them blankets, then have Anthea arrange for someone to care for them,” he called after them. “They are almost certainly minors, and likely have no safe homes to return to.” Because the kids were human, not vampire—reading between the lines, they were very likely sold into what was essentially slavery.

Within 15 minutes the Holmes group were virtually alone in the vast ballroom, with the exception of a flustered crew of serving staff who weren’t quite sure what to do with the abandoned statue/blood fountain in the middle of the floor. The debauched round couches were also drawing a fair amount of attention.

As the last of the party guests left, Mycroft’s guards walked over and introduced themselves to John. The first just said his name— “Henry”—before heading back out front, presumably to observe the departures. The larger man stuck out a friendly hand. “Hiya,” he said. “I’m Clive.” He gave a gentle smile that belied his huge, muscular appearance.

“John Watson,” John said, shaking firmly. He looked around the room, observing Mycroft and Sherlock huddled together over Mycroft’s phone. “Do a lot of this kind of thing, do you?” Since obviously this wasn’t one of Mycroft’s normal security team—John knew most of them, and couldn’t imagine them in this setting.

“A fair amount,” Clive said. “The _Sang_ here in Britain are pretty normal. But the Europeans are a great big bag of crazy, as are the Chinese. We all hate diplomatic trips overseas—spend the whole time feeling like we’re being watched. And we probably are.” He gave a wry grin. “Though I’m happier with eyes than with, oh, snipers. We’re going to keep a really close eye of our own on ‘Uncle’ August for the foreseeable. He’s an evil old fucker.”

John gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, that seems pretty apt.

Sherlock wandered over just then. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Mycroft suggested we order in at his house. It will be pretentious, of course, but likely edible. And I find myself somewhat peckish after all our exertions.”

John looked across the ballroom to the buffet set up along the far wall. “Shouldn’t we…?” he said, waving at the tables.

Sherlock blinked— _buffering_ , as Greg Lestrade called in. Clive stepped in instead.

“Um…you probably don’t want any of that,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “It’s, um, well, it’s not made for—”

“ _Oh_ ,” John said, suddenly realizing what Clive (and, by inference, the still-buffering Sherlock) was concerned about. “It’s made with blood, then?” He was both queasy and curious.

Clive nodded, somewhat abashed. “Most likely,” he said. “At least to some degree. It’s another one of those weird European things. Most of it doesn’t even _taste_ very good.” He shook his head, like a dog offered something that looked nice, but smelled wrong.

Sherlock popped back into himself. “It’s often salty and has an unpleasant, sticky texture,” he sniffed. “Especially unfortunate in desserts.” He gave a delicate little shudder.

John matched him. “I don’t even like blood sausage,” he said. “Let’s go, then.”

The dinner wasn’t lavish, exactly, but it was certainly top shelf, with options worthy of any four-star restaurant. (Though, come to that, that may very well have been the source. Mycroft worked in mysterious ways). They sat around the smaller dining table in the kitchen and passed bits of this and that back and forth (well, not Mycroft, of course. But still). There was a surprising amount of laughter, with no small portions of it derived from Mycroft’s desert-dry comments.

They finally had a car take them back to Baker Street in the wee hours. John had a pleasant buzz going on from several mugs of good lager; Sherlock was frankly tipsy from his own three glasses of wine.

They went carefully up the stairs, hoping to avoid waking Mrs. H. Clive came along, carrying the garment bags with the two sets of regalia (since Mycroft had kindly supplied track suits so they could switch out of the elaborate finery before they ate). When John tottered off to bed, Sherlock and Clive were ensconced in the lounge, watching a nature documentary over the last bottle of wine they’d brought along.

They had a late start to the day, that next morning. Mrs. Hudson had kindly cooked a substantial breakfast for them, but waited until half-nine to bring it upstairs and roust them from their beds. As John settled at the table across from a hungover Sherlock, he was surprised to see Clive sitting in the lounge with a plate on his lap. The big man noticed John’s look and smiled, giving a tiny little wave before returning to his plate. John smiled in return and went back to his bacon and eggs.

By late afternoon John was calm and content, relieved to relax after the stress of the past two weeks. Well, as relaxed as he was ever likely to be after a night like they’d just gone through. He and Sherlock settled down to a game of Spades on the coffee table, something the detective found soothing and John rather enjoyed, since Sherlock couldn’t easily manipulate the results. Clive ignored them both, absorbed in his phone, while Mrs. H puttered around in the kitchen.

John looked at the silent vampire standing in the corner. He had nearly a foot on Sherlock, and likely 10 stone. John shuddered to think how much he typically ate, even considering how much of his diet came from a blood bank. They’d need to make an extra trip to Tesco before dinner if the man was staying much longer.

“Why is he still here?” John said quietly, as if Clive wasn’t going to hear him despite being only 10 feet away.

“It’s his job,” Sherlock said, trying but failing to look nonchalant. “He’s your man in waiting-slash-bodyguard.”

John felt his mouth drop open. “I don’t need a _bodyguard_ ,” he finally managed to say, looking over his shoulder at Clive, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter, dear,” Mrs. H said, as she handed around a tray of biscuits. Clive took 5.

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” John said. “We don’t need someone underfoot. Perfectly able to take care of ourselves.” He looked guiltily over at Clive. “Sorry, mate.”

Clive smiled. “No problem,” he said softly, around a mouthful of biscuit.

“Well, dear, it’s a matter of, erm, _propriety_ , I guess you’d say,” Mrs. H offered. “For Mycroft, I mean.” She was suddenly very busy picking up cups and plates.

John frowned. “What does Mycroft have to do with leaving a bodyguard here?”

Sherlock looked busily at the biscuit crumbs he was pushing around his plate, avoiding John’s eyes. “It’s all to do with his new title,” he said. “Nothing to be concerned about, really.”

Well, _that_ wasn’t reassuring at all. “Of course I’m concerned,” John said. “Why would his new title require him to post people in our flat?”

“You were introduced as Mycroft’s consort in front of the entire Concordium,” Sherlock said, in his _how do you simultaneously walk and breathe?_ voice. But John noticed that his friend was still not meeting his eyes—never a good sign.

“Yeah, I remember. Pretty sure I was there,” John said, with an eyeroll to rival Sherlock. “So? Magnussen’s back in his cave, tail between his legs, and Mycroft’s now a prince twice over. Problem solved.”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock said. “But you’re… he…” He frowned, blinked, and ran out of words.

John gave up on the detective, and raised his eyebrows at Mrs. Hudson. That lady swallowed, looked at Sherlock, then back to John before she spoke. “Well, dear, I want you to remember this isn’t _permanent_. I mean, it will take a while to fix, and some of it will be, well, a little awkward and embarrassing. But still, it’s doable, and I’m sure the paperwork is already in progress.” She gave John a hopeful smile.

John blinked, thought, blinked again. “Um…paperwork? For what?” he finally managed, though he had this awful, sinking feeling he already knew. From across the table Sherlock gave him what John recognized as a variant of the Holmes Guilt Face.

“Mycroft held up your hand and proclaimed your bond, publicly. You acknowledged it, but then you also fought and won a challenge on his behalf,” Sherlock said, very, very quickly, as if to get it over with. “Which means. Well. You’re. Well.” He stalled momentarily, then finished in a rush. “You’re married. To Mycroft. _Actually_ married, not just bonded.” He blinked. “Congratulations?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it, friends--hope you enjoyed the visit!
> 
> I MAY try and find time to do another one-shot for Halloween. We'll see.

**Author's Note:**

> *Rudy's reaction to his "mongrel" half-fae nephews is detailed in "All in the Family".


End file.
